


Subject

by achievemenhunter



Series: Subject (Mad King Ryan/Reader AU) [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Mad King Ryan, Rough Sex, Smut, blowjob, reader imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievemenhunter/pseuds/achievemenhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mad King takes what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A reader/Mad King Ryan fic. Warnings for mild implied violence/gore and explicit other nsfw things. There's some setup before the actual fun stuff starts, so if you want to get straight to it just scroll down until you see this: ~* * *~
> 
> Also, it's been a while since I've written smut, so please forgive me if I'm a little rusty.

Screams of pain bounce off the blood-drenched cobblestones. Whatever raiders are attacking your village are obviously not meeting any significant resistance; the door your back is pressed to is thin, and you'd be able to hear the ring of clashing weapons. The village guard must have already been overcome, or otherwise fled. All you can hear is the cries of the dying. You whimper, burying your face in your hands. You have no idea where your parents are - they're due back from the market soon, and for their sake you hope it's taking them longer than usual.

 

For now, at least, you're alone. But this could change at any moment, and as the screams get closer and closer, it seems more and more likely. Your breath is coming out in shaky pants, and you force yourself to calm down, dragging in slow, deep lungfuls of air before releasing them.

 

You will not go down without a fight.

 

You'll need a weapon if you're to stand a chance, though. Your eyes dart around the room, finally resting on the knife that you'd been using to prepare dinner before the attack started. It's not ideal, but it's really the best option you have. You scramble towards it and scoop it up, squaring your shoulders as you straighten and head back to the door.

 

The screaming has stopped, leaving the streets eerily quiet. Everyone must either be dead or hiding, and the thought is so abhorrent that you shove it to the back of your mind. Taking another big gulp of air, you readjust your grip on the knife, holding it up and slightly to the side as you push through the door.

 

Blood sticks to your shoes as soon as you hit the cobblestone, but you barely notice. Your mouth is dry, your legs frozen, fear seeming to suck all the moisture from your body and leaving you as an immovable husk. Five men had turned to face you the second you walked out your door, and you recognised them immediately. They're no raiders.

 

They're the King's Men.

 

The one closest to you, clad in dull green and black armour, starts laughing. "Look at that, gents. I think we've met our match."

 

You lick your lips, jabbing your knife in front of yourself protectively. "Stay back," you manage, your voice somehow not breaking.

 

Another of the men, this one with a fiery beard and a broadsword almost as tall as you resting easily on his shoulder, lets out a chuckle. "Aww, how cute. I think she actually believes that she'd be able to hurt one of us before we cut her down."

 

Yet another man, cloaked in a creeper skin, had been perched on a rooftop across the street. Now he leaps down, arrows rattling in a quiver on his back and a massive longbow in his hand. "I hate to break it to you, love, but you really don't stand a chance." He moves up beside a slightly darker skinned man wearing black armour with a rose tucked through his belt.

 

"I mean, nothing personal, but we do kinda know what we're doing, and you don't." He's holding a long rapier, and despite being a much more slender sword than the ginger man is carrying, it's clearly no less deadly.

 

They slowly advance on you and it's only a few steps backward before you hit the wall. Your arms are starting to shake from being held up for so long and you make a quick stabbing motion at them. "I said stay back!" You can barely keep your voice from quivering.

 

The final man in the group, who up until now had been silently swinging a huge battleaxe like it weighed nothing, suddenly grins wolfishly and rests the weapon on the furs draped over his shoulders. "Oh, he's going to want to see _her_."

 

"I'm going to want to see whom?" The deep voice calls out from behind the men and they immediately part to let its owner through, and if not for the wall your back is pressed to, you'd be a terrified puddle on the ground.

 

King Ryan is striding towards you, a cloak the same colour as the blood dripping from his sword swirling behind him. It dawns on you several seconds too late that you're still holding the knife out in front of you, and that you've basically just threatened the King. Despite every part of your body seeming to shriek at you to _lower your arms for god's sake_ , you keep the pitiful weapon pointed at the man who rules the entire country. It's not like your parents are around to scold you for being impetuous and stubborn, you think resentfully.

 

A glimmer of interest ignites in his blue eyes, and you find yourself transfixed, forgetting for the moment that this is the King and you're far too low in standing to be making eye contact with him in the first place. On anyone else, those eyes would be friendly and warm, but on the King they're like a snake watching a field mouse. He steps closer and the knife twitches in your grip. The King's Men close ranks around you, weapons raised, but King Ryan flicks his hand at them and they back off half a pace, still poised to strike. He smiles at you and moves closer, within striking distance. You gasp involuntarily as his hands close around yours, stilling their tremors. You're not entirely sure why you didn't lash out at him, but it's not like you can do anything about it now.

 

"Give me the knife, girl."

 

Slowly, you slide your fingers from around the hilt of the knife, letting your one defence fall into the hands of the King.

 

Maintaining eye contact with you, he calls over his shoulder, "Gavin, be a good lad and fetch me some rope. I believe you were right, Michael. I quite like this one."

 

The archer nods and wanders off, returning a few moments later with a length of rope. He deftly ties your hands in front of you, just tight enough to be uncomfortable. The King grabs you by the shoulder and steers you away from the small house you have lived your whole life, his men falling in step behind him. He ignores the bodies in your path, forcing you to step over them. Bile rises in your throat as you realise just how many of the people you grew up knowing are lying lifeless around you. You finally stop at the outskirts of the village, where half a dozen tethered horses are grazing. The men quickly set about untying the horses and mounting them. The man in green and black armour leads a powerful-looking dark horse to you and the King. "I hope you realise what a privilege it is to be allowed to ride on the King's horse." His mouth is a serious line through his scruffy beard as he hoists you unceremoniously into the saddle. You fall forward awkwardly, hands gripping at the horse's mane, having never ridden a steed before. The King swings himself into place behind you in a smooth motion and reaches for the reins, slapping them against the horse's neck. The beast responds immediately and you yelp as you're suddenly set into motion. Your ears burn as the men laugh. The pace increases and soon you're speeding away from the only place you've ever called home, your eyes blurring with tears as you realise you'll never see it again. Your parents will never know what happened to you - they'll just return to a blood-soaked ghost town.

 

 _You will not cry. You will not cry._ The mantra drums through your head in time with the horse's hoofbeats.

 

Fields roll by either side of the dusty road and you struggle to find a firm and comfortable seat. The saddle is clearly not designed for two people, and the way the pommel is sitting up against your pelvic bone will leave a bruise before long. King Ryan chuckles behind you, the low sound reverberating through his torso into yours. He holds the reins loosely in one hand and pulls you half onto his lap with the other, and although the pommel isn't bumping up against you anymore you're uncomfortable for a whole different reason. You're pressed flush to the King's chest and there's no denying the toned muscles hidden underneath his black riding coat. You try to clear your head of such thoughts - the man had just kidnapped you and slaughtered almost everyone you know, for god's sake - but your mind refuses to ignore the rhythmic shifting of King Ryan's muscles against your back.

 

After roughly an hour of this loping pace - which is far faster than you've ever gone in your life and you're still not entirely at ease with the speed - the group slows their mounts to a gentle walk to let them rest a little, making idle small talk about weapons and mass murder. The King takes his hand from around your waist to reach for the waterskin hanging from the pommel and the skin where he had been touching you suddenly feels cold. He takes a long draught and sighs contently before bringing it to your lips. There's no way you're confident enough in keeping your balance to take your hands from the horse's neck, so you begrudgingly allow him to pour water into your mouth. It tastes leathery, but your throat is so dry that you're barely aware of it. He moves to retie the waterskin and you blush, suddenly aware at how much your skirt has ridden up, not having been designed for horse riding. The King seems to notice at the same time as you do, and his hand very deliberately brushes along your exposed inner thigh on it way back to your waist. Unable to stop yourself, you take in a sharp breath and move into the touch. Michael and Gavin, the two riding closest to the King, hear the small sound and grin at each other and the King smirks into your hair.

 

Your eyes tear up once more and you have to start mentally repeating _you will not cry_ again to stop them from falling. You're not naive. If the King wanted you tortured or dead, you wouldn't be sitting astride a royal horse - you'd be forced to run alongside them, or be lying in a pool of your own blood. You know exactly why you're being taken to the castle.

 

You're just scared at how much you're starting to want it.

 

~* * *~

 

The cut of your new dress is inappropriately tight and is thin enough to clearly indicate that you're not wearing anything underneath it. That they had a dress that fits you so well is a little unnerving, and you fidget with your sleeves as you sit perched on the end of the King's bed. You've been sitting there for at least an hour, after the King showed you the chamber, directed you to sit and threatened dire consequences if you moved. You somewhat doubt the legitimacy of this warning, but not enough to get up and get a better look at the room you're currently imprisoned in, past confirming that the doors were locked once you were sure he was gone. But, if you're completely honest with yourself, you probably wouldn't leave if the option was available to you. Curiosity about what a night spent with the King would entail keep you rooted to the spot. You wonder if this makes you shallow. Gritting your teeth, you remind yourself that the man you're currently fantasising about is responsible for the death of almost everyone in your village, and wouldn't have hesitated to kill your parents if they'd been at home. You're ashamed at how little this thought does to diminish your anticipation.

 

You dig your nails into the palms of your hands and you wait.

 

Several more hours pass before he finally returns, changed out of his riding gear and scrubbed free of blood, clean golden-brown hair shining in the torchlight. He smiles and you're struck by just how handsome he is. As bloodthirsty monarchs go, you could certainly have done a lot worse. He raises an eyebrow at you and glances at the lush rug at his feet. You scramble awkwardly to your feet, your legs stiff after sitting still for so long. You stop about half a meter from him and sink to your knees as gracefully as you can, trying to make up for your initial clumsiness. He shakes his head.

 

"Get up, girl." His eyes rake over your body as you stand once more and you shiver as a small smirk curls one side of his mouth.

 

"The seamstresses did a remarkable job, pulling this dress together on such short notice. It suits you well."

 

"Thank you," you murmur, blushing at the complement. You gasp as he grabs you roughly by the wrist and pulls you close, blue eyes turning thunderous.

 

"Is that any way to address your King?" he hisses.

 

"N-no, my Lord," you stammer, reeling from the sudden change in demeanour. He wasn't called the Mad King for nothing.

 

He smiles again, the dark cloud disappearing. "Much better." Then, using his free hand to grab you by the waist, he crushes his lips against yours.

 

The kiss is passionate, overwhelming, and you feel completely at his mercy. You've always prided yourself in being a strong, independent person, but it's clear that from the moment he saw you the King was in absolute control.

 

His hand snakes up from your waist to the laces at the back of your dress, and you feel a stab of jealousy at how well-practiced his motions are, untying the bow faster with one hand than you could do yourself with two. The fabric loosens around your ribcage and you take in a deep breath, releasing it as a shuddering sigh into his mouth as his hand moves to firmly caress your breasts, thumb brushing over your already hardening nipple through the thin fabric.  He finally takes his other hand from your wrist, running it down your side to clasp your upper leg before gathering enough of the skirt to be able to touch bare skin, drawing small circles on your hip with his fingers. He continues to ravage your mouth with his expert tongue, his fingers dragging inexorably closer to your inner thigh.

 

You groan as his hand suddenly changes direction to slid around and cup your ass, squeezing and drawing you momentarily closer. He grins evilly against your lips. "Eager," he admonishes.

 

"Yes, my Lord," you reply immediately, already slick with desire. Earlier, you had been scared that you wanted this so badly. That had long been thrown out the window. His lips leave your mouth to continue their rough caresses down your neck and along your collarbone, teeth biting hard enough to leave bruises. The fact that he's marking you like this sends all sorts of dizzying sensations through your body, and you grip at his firm biceps to keep yourself steady.

 

The hand not currently teasing and hinting at devilish things rises to tangle firmly in your hair. He grips tight and forces your head back to give him better access to your neck, simultaneously sliding a finger inside you, moving in and out a few times before adding a second digit, then a third. His calloused palm rubs against your clit with every thrust, and it takes almost everything you have to stop yourself from moaning like a whore. Suddenly, he frowns and withdraws. You let out a small sob at the loss. "I've changed my mind," he says at length. You racing heart sputters and you clutch at him desperately, any sense of pride gone. He smirks at you before elaborating. "I don't like this dress on you at all." He hoists the skirt of the dress over your hips, roughly pushing the material up your body and over your head. He slams his fingers back into you before you even have time to shiver in the cool air, making you cry out in a heady mixture of shock, pleasure and pain.

 

He continues this rough treatment as he starts walking you back towards the bed, and you stumble on weak legs before the backs of your knees hit the edge of the plush mattress. You start to fall, even as he disentangles his fingers from your hair in order to throw you onto the bed. He moves with you, towering over you and using his forward momentum to drive into you even harder. He uses his free hand to press your shoulder into the mattress, steadying himself as he increases the pace. His cloak falls around you both like a bloodied curtain, and the space between you warms quickly with your combined body heat.

 

Your hands grip at the blankets as a pressure starts to build in your abdomen, your limbs starting to twitch. It feels like a river in a rainstorm, swollen and beating against a dam, trying to break through - and with an all-at-once rush, it does. Your back arcs away from the mattress like you've been struck by lightning, electric current sizzling through your veins and setting your legs into uncontrollable spasms as the King rides you through your orgasm.

 

You lie back, panting, as he stands and unclasps his cloak, the heavy material pooling by his feet. His embroidered coat is quick to follow, leaving him only in a fine silk undershirt and a kilt as he sits down at the head of the bed to take off his socks and brogues. You roll over onto your stomach to keep him in your line of sight. He takes the thin shirt off, the muscles of his back practically rippling as he pulls it over his head. You had started to cool down with nothing covering you, but the sight of Ryan's well-toned body, edged silver by the moonlight streaming through the window, makes you feel like you're standing right next to a bonfire. The King settles down on the frankly obscene number of pillows piled at the top of the bed and crooks a finger at you. You pull yourself up onto your hands and knees, crawling across the plush bedcovers until you're crouched before the King. With a languorous slowness, he unbuckles his belt and draws it free, flicking the folds of his kilt to the side to display his erection. He raises his eyebrows pointedly. "I require your attention."

 

An embarrassingly tiny squeak escapes your lips, and his eyebrows come crashing down like thunderclouds.

 

"I will not repeat myself."

 

With a small start, you scoot a little further forward, placing your hands on his hips before tentatively licking at the head of his cock. In your periphery, you see him smirk. Emboldened, you lick your lips before taking him briefly into your mouth, tongue swirling and lapping as you pull off with a slight pop. Your tongue glides in a wide stripe against the base of his cock from balls to tip, before you take him in again, slightly deeper this time. Slowly, you begin to bob your head up and down, taking in a little more of him on each pass.

 

Evidently, he's not satisfied with the pace you're setting - his fingers knot in your hair and pull you down savagely before almost dragging you off, only to slam your mouth back down again. You breathe heavily through your nose to suppress your gag reflex, nearly choking.

 

As abruptly as he'd grabbed you, he lets you go. Stars dance across your vision and a warm flush spreads across your chest. His hand slides around your waist and draws you onto his lap. With some readjustment, you sit with your legs folded up outside of his, your ass pressing into his thighs.

 

"Are you ready?" His voice is low, compelling, and you don't think you'd be able to bring yourself to say no, even if you wanted to. You simply nod, and he lines himself up with your entrance, tip sliding in. In an oddly supportive gesture, he takes hold of your hips, gently guiding you down, giving you time to adapt to his size. This sudden oscillation between kind and cruel is making your head spin in all the best ways possible. With a shudder and a sigh, your settle your weight completely on his hips, head bowed, breathing deeply. He continues his generosity - and you realise how messed up it is that you're considering it as such - by allowing you adjust to the position before he rocks his hips up into you. You bite your lip before grinding down on him in response.

 

He almost seems to take this as some sort of retaliation, or rebellion. With the sinuous grace and power of a wolf, he grabs you by the waist, holding you against him as he flips you onto your back. Your indignant cry quickly morphs into a drawn-out groan as he uses the motion to thrust into you. He sets up a rhythmic pace, pounding into you and filling you completely on every downstroke. The entire bed frame shakes and squeaks as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hands at his back, trying to touch as much of him as you possibly can. You can feel the muscles of his shoulders contracting and releasing under your fingers on every thrust. His head drops to your neck again, harsh biting kisses leaving an increasing litany of bruises on your skin. One hand roughly caresses your chest, fingers tweaking hard nipples as he maintains rhythm.

 

Pressure begins to build up within you once more, and you feel Ryan smirk against your collarbone as a small tremor runs through your body, like a light pattering of rain signifying the storm ahead. He sits up on his knees, still buried deep in your core. He grabs onto your hips, grip strong enough to leave marks, and increases his pace. The change in position makes him hit your sweet spot right at the apex of each thrust, and you can't help but cry out as the pleasurable sensation starts to mount. Your breathing becomes panting sighs. "Ryan - my Lord - I-" You stutter, trying to articulate yourself as the sensation surges towards its breaking point. He increases the pace and you shatter, orgasm rippling through you in shockwaves. Ryan continues to pound into you, grunting on each stroke. You can feel yourself clenching around his length, and it's a matter of seconds before his cock twitches inside you and he comes, arms going weak as his body presses against yours.

 

He takes a moment to regain his composure before slowly pulling out of you, rolling onto his back. He pushes down the covers, sliding underneath them and promptly falling asleep. You're a little taken aback and confused; does he want you to stay, or should you leave? Where would you even go? Biting your lip, you decide to get under the sheets with the Mad King. Surely, he would have told you to get out if he didn't want you here.

 

You settle into place and his arm wraps possessively around you. Briefly, you wonder how you fell so quickly into this role, and why you don't feel as ashamed as you would have thought you would.

 

But then again, if what had just happened was any indication of how your new life at the palace is going to go, you certainly don't have any objections.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone over on tumblr requested more Mad King Ryan/Reader, so here you go.

If someone had told you a month earlier that you'd be sitting by the Mad King's side in the royal dining hall, eating some kind of light, chocolaty dessert that you had no name for, you would have brushed them off as insane. Yet, that's exactly where you are now, wearing an elegant dress that you parents probably would have to work for twenty years to be able to afford.

 

Your stomach clenches at the thought of your parents, knowing that you'll never see them again, never see that small village cottage that up until four weeks ago, had been your home for your entire life. Thinking about your past life always makes you react like this, and you know you can't let the King see. Instead, you focus on the dessert, concentrating intensely on the texture of it melting against your tongue. Unfortunately, the portion size is very small, and is soon gone. You turn your attention to your dress, counting the delicate loops and swirls of the pattern on the skirt. There's an almost hidden pocket at your right hip - which is strange enough in itself - but you think that whatever seamstress sewed it in forgot to actually sew the bottom together. You don't mention it to the King, though. He's known for flying into fantastic rages over the smallest things, and you don't want anyone to get in trouble for an ultimately inconsequential oversight.

 

Speaking of the King, he's taking an even longer time to finish his dessert than you did. He's been watching you through the entire dinner, and while his gaze had initially been flattering, now the anticipation is making you uncomfortable. Finally, unable to really look anywhere else, you meet his eyes. He smirks at you, licking a small scoop of chocolate from his spoon, swallowing it thoughtfully.

 

"I think I've had quite enough of that." His voice is pitched low as he sets down the utensil, but it still bounces off the stone walls and makes you jump with its suddenness. You're glad that the servants that clear the plates away won't show up until later, so that no-one but the Mad King is able to notice your embarrassment.

 

"My Lord?" you ask, hesitant and blushing slightly.

 

He tilts his head back slightly and beckons to you. "Come sit with me."

 

You push back your chair, brushing down your skirt out of habit. He lazily pushes his own chair back with one foot, barely giving you enough room to inch between the arm of the chair and the table. Rather predictably, you stumble and fall against him. He catches you, draws you onto his lap with his arm latched securely around your waist. His other hand strokes your hair, gently tucking a few loose strands behind your ear. He always seems to enjoy teasing you with moments of tenderness before going about completely claiming your body, and every time he manages to catch you by surprise when he switches between the two. Tonight is no exception, and you can't help but gasp when his mouth suddenly latches onto your neck, the sound echoing alarmingly in the otherwise empty room. He manages to grin while sucking a mark onto the skin over your neck, almost like he's branding you, like he owns you.

 

Though, to be fair, at this point he practically does.

 

His left hand trails down to trace the swell of your breasts, pressed together by the confines of your dress. His fingers dip below the fabric, squeezing firmly before taking one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger and tweaking it to hardness. Your hands find the arms of the chair and you clutch at them, knuckles white. Your fingernails dig in and you're fairly sure you're making little crescent-shaped indentations in the wood.

 

His right arm drifts from its position around your waist, edging towards the incomplete pocket. His hand slides in and suddenly you realise that the bottom of the pocket was left open on purpose, specifically designed to give the King easier access to his prize. You've gotten used to the fact that you're never provided with underwear to go with your dresses, but you can't quite believe that he's going this far in the dining hall, of all places. Then, his finger brushes purposefully against your clit, and reality is very firmly solidified.

 

The King is going to pleasure you right in that seat, sitting on his lap in the middle of the dining hall where a servant could walk in at any time, and the mere thought is turning you on much more than you would have expected.

 

Your breath catches as his fingers dip lower, trailing through the wetness collecting around your entrance. You can feel his approving smile against your neck. "You always are so eager for me, aren't you?" You nod, your head tipping back against him as his forefinger enters you, the side of his palm rubbing against your clit. His other hand, still below the neckline of your dress, suddenly pinches you nipple, hard, and you cry out. "I asked you a _question_."

 

"Y-yes, my Lord! I am, my Lord!" you stammer immediately, and he withdraws his hand from the top of your dress, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze.

 

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the hand at your shoulder drifts slowly down your arm, resting momentarily at your elbow before snaking across your waist, pulling you against him tightly and pinning your arms to your sides. The hand still under your skirt gets to work. Within the space of four thrusts, the finger inside you is joined by two more, and you cry out again. Your head lolls back, tucking under his chin. You try to push back against him, to match his rhythm and gain some semblance of control, but he's holding you so close that all you can do is take what you're given. He kisses and bites at your neck without breaking the skin, his stubble scraping roughly along your jaw.

 

You find a way to shift your lower half against him, giving you some relief, and you feel him twitch beneath his kilt. A moan escapes you and you try to repeat the motion, but with a growl he readjusts his grip on you, driving his fingers into you a little harder. Your head, which had tilted forward, snaps back against him and you whimper.

 

The door at the far end of the hall cracks open, and suddenly the Mad King's arm is gone from your waist and a spoon is in your hand. His right hand is still under your skirt, and although his motions have become subdued, he's still keeping pace.

 

"The dessert," he murmurs at you, and you're jolted into action. You jerkily scoop a small spoonful of the dessert, nearly missing the plate altogether, as a servant slips into the hall and bows. You let your hair fall forward to cover the bruises the King has made on your neck, trying to school your face into impassivity despite the insistent fingers inside you. Your arm trembles as you bring the spoon to Ryan's mouth, and it's only through some miracle that you manage not to twitch and accidentally jab the utensil into his cheek. His teeth catch on the spoon and he slowly licks the chocolate off it, eyes boring into the servant that has slipped into the room.

 

The servant goes to speak, but Ryan cuts him off before he can get a word out. "I am still _eating_."

 

The servant's face goes white. "I-I'm so sorry, my Lord, I thought-"

 

"You do not think, you serve. Now _get out_." The servant nods rapidly, shutting the door with shaking hands.

 

Ryan plucks the spoon from your fingers, tossing it onto the table with a clatter. "That was an admirable performance," he tells you, the fingers inside you regaining their earlier earnestness. His free hand smooths your hair down, then tangles in it, pulling your head back so he has access to your neck again. Your breath hitches and a small spasm makes your leg kick out. He smirks. "This didn't take long." His breath is hot on your skin, the sensation amplified as you approach your climax. "The idea of being caught thrills you, doesn't it?" You let out a shaky groan, your leg twitching again, and his smirk turns into a grin. "You would love for someone to walk in on you while I'm making you fall apart." His voice lowers. "I can't say I'm opposed to the idea. To show someone that you belong to me, that you are irrevocably mine to do with as I please... You'd like that, wouldn't you?" You nod, sob turning into a scream as you clench around his fingers, your orgasm crashing through you. He strokes you until you stop twitching at every touch, then pulls his hand out from under your skirt. He wipes his fingers off on a napkin, balling it up and throwing it onto his dessert plate. He uses his feet to push the chair away from the table, and you stand up on unsteady legs, turning to face him. His head tilts and his eyes lock onto yours.

 

"I will be in my chambers in ten minutes. I expect you to be on my bed and your dress to be elsewhere."

 

"Yes, my Lord." You curtsey awkwardly, bumping against the table before scurrying out of the room, heart pounding as you race to Ryan's chambers as fast as your feet will carry you.

 

After all, you live to serve.


End file.
